


you can't dance and stay uptight

by gsparkle



Series: fast forward [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gsparkle/pseuds/gsparkle
Summary: Kate’s a Bishop and a Hawkeye and a princess, sometimes; she’s not a goddamn coward.





	you can't dance and stay uptight

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: We were dancing but all of a sudden it’s a slow song and we’re standing here awkwardly staring at each other 
> 
> title: dancing in the moonlight, king harvest

Kate hates two things. Okay, she hates more than two things, but right now, this minute, it’s only two: the clammy sweat of her hands and _Noh-fucking-Varr_.

She hates Noh-Varr, you know, in general, 85% of the time; but tonight it’s because he’s the DJ at yet another of their ill-advised “we survived!” party, for which they’ve bribed Clint to clean out every bodega in a three block radius of their beer and then crammed every young do-gooder they know onto the roof of Clint’s Bed-Stuy tenement. (“What do _I_ get from this arrangement, Katie-Kate,” he asked wearily, as if he doesn’t know that her ongoing friendship-slash-stewardship-of-his-disastrous-life isn’t gift enough.) The summer moon is low and huge, a spotlight shining on her as she dances to Kesha with Billy and Tommy, then to the Ronettes with a begrudging David. And then, just as she falls into America’s orbit, just as Rihanna begins to insist that he please don’t stop the music--

“Let’s go ahead and slow it down, folks,” Noh-Varr says into a microphone he’s randomly procured, clearly under the delusion that he’s a late night radio host and not a teenaged alien-cockroach hybrid who regularly doesn’t wear pants. “Here’s one for all you lovers out there,” he goes on, the first strains of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” swirling into the night sky. Billy and Teddy make the absolute most saccharine faces at each other and America turns to Kate with _ugh, boy kissing_ written all over her face.

“Wanna dance, princess?” she asks, one hand on her hip. And see, this is why Kate hates Noh-Varr, because all she wanted was to dance to Rihanna with America, to bump hips and yell incomprehensible lyrics into each other’s faces, the kind of close proximity that’s easy and carefree and safe. She doesn’t want to hold America close and pretend to hate slow dancing, because she wants _to do exactly that_ so badly that it’s impossible to think about anything else.

But Kate’s a Bishop and a Hawkeye and a princess, sometimes; she’s not a goddamn coward. “Sure,” she says, “Whatever,” because she’s cool, chill, calm. She is not nervous. She is not considering leaping off the tenement roof and somersaulting into the night. Nope, not even a little.

America places one of Kate’s hands on her shoulder and takes the other in hers. Kate has spent all night pretending not to notice the way America’s racerback tank makes her arms look fantastically strong, so she figures she can spend the next few minutes pretending not to notice the way America’s muscles flex under Kate’s hand as they sway to the music. Anyway, this is better than the prom sway, wherein Kate would have her hands locked behind America’s neck and America’s hands would be around her waist. Like this, there’s space between them, so Kate can’t do something incredibly foolish, like crowd into the flame that is America Chavez and ask to be set on fire.

Just the thought of it makes her hands clammy. This always happens when she’s around America: she can’t figure out what to say or how to hold herself or how to laugh right. And right now, when she’s a little tipsy and America is grinning in that way that makes Kate feel like she’s swallowed a firecracker, she can’t think about anything other than what it would feel like to wake up with that grin against her skin tomorrow morning, and the next and the next and the next.

“Are you even listening?” America asks, as she has apparently been talking under all the Elvis and Kate’s been too busy having clammy hands and general neurosis to pay attention. Flushing, Kate shakes her head, and America laughs like she doesn’t laugh around anyone else, kind and fond. “Bishop, you’re lucky you’re cute.”

There’s a right way to respond to that, a cool way that doesn’t reveal her gigantic fucking crush on the most beautiful girl in the world. It’s probably _I know, right_ or maybe it’s _you know it,_ or something equally blase. It’s definitely, definitely, not “No, _you’re_ cute,” which is what comes out of Kate’s mouth.

America looks incredibly skeptical. “I’m… cute?” she repeats.

“Um,” Kate says, “No, ah, you’re--” Because no, America’s not cute: there’s nothing about her that’s dainty or cuddly or pretty. America is beautiful the way the ocean is, powerful and mystic, or glorious like a sunrise, sharp and blinding and new every single time. America is--“You’re a force of nature,” Kate says honestly. “In the best way possible, of course.”

“Of course,” America agrees. There’s something dark and liquid in her eyes that Kate likes a whole lot, something that makes her kneecaps feel like jello, especially when America leans closer and says, “Kate,” says her actual name, not _princess_ or _chica_ or _Hawkeye_ , her voice deliciously low and interested.

“America,” she says back, leaning even closer.

And then the song fucking ends, and Noh-fucking-Varr puts on _the electric fucking slide,_ and Kate nearly loses it. “I will be _right_ back,” she tells America, ducking out of her arms and stomping right up to the DJ booth, nobly ignoring both the girl trying to chat up Noh-Varr _and_ the fact that he’s already managed to lose his pants.

“Put on another slow song,” she demands.

“Uh,” says Noh-Varr.

“Noh,” she says with not very much patience, “I am having a _moment_ with America Chavez and I need you to please, _please_ , do me a solid.”

Noh-Varr pushes at the lock of hair he keeps on his forehead exactly so that he can look all thoughtful and pensive. “This better get you laid,” he says at last. “If you chicken out, then you owe me big time.”

Kate blows him a kiss. “I’d never,” she swears. She skids back to America just as music blares from the speakers. _At last,_ sings Etta James, and she flips off Noh across the rooftop even though he probably can’t see her. “I think we were right about here,” Kate says, picking up America’s hand and leaning back in. “Right?”

“I think that’s right,” America says, her grin teasing. “Kate,” she says again in that dark chocolate sort of voice, and Kate surges in, capturing America’s face between her hands and kissing her before she loses her nerve. Dimly, she’s aware of Billy cooing obnoxiously and Tommy saying _about fucking time_ to David as if he knows literally anything, but that’s all background noise for the important part, which is that America Chavez kisses her back, and kisses like she _means_ it. Kate feels like she might explode out of her skin.

Eventually everyone figures out that watching Kate and America make out isn’t that interesting and wanders away. “Can we go, like,” Kate says, struggling to string words together. “Somewhere?”

America’s eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Somewhere, coming right up,” she teases, picking Kate up before stomping hard and shattering a star into Kate’s bedroom. “Suitable?”

Kate drops onto the bed and pulls America down with her. “Absolutely,” she gasps, “Perfect,” and she doesn’t hate anything else for the rest of the night.

 


End file.
